


Catch (Pause for Release)

by FreshBrains



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Animalistic, Animals, Bathing/Washing, Biting, Canon Disabled Character, Courtship, Harm to Animals, Kink Meme, Knotting, M/M, Minor Violence, Minor Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Possessive Behavior, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3966844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Alpha feeds omega,” Peter muses.  “Alpha kills for omega.  Same.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch (Pause for Release)

**Author's Note:**

> For the Hannibal Kink Meme Prompt: _AU being that Randall is alive and Peter isn't in jail._  
>  Randall, the alpha who is at times more beast then man, see's Peter, the omega who takes care of animals. And decides he wants him.

Peter gets two visitors every night—the Great Horned owl, and the bear-wolf.

Peter names the owl Lila, and she calls to him every night when he curls up in his cot above the barn— _hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo_ , like beautiful clockwork.  She’s a tender thing, free but shy, and Peter finds comfort in her when she watches over him from afar.  She doesn’t make herself seen, but she’s there.

The bear-wolf is different.  He’s not kind and soft like Lila, but he’s not _bad_ , at least Peter doesn’t think he is.  But Peter doesn’t believe in truly bad animals.  The bear-wolf stays behind the copse of trees a hundred yards from the barn, half-hidden, waiting.  He breathes heavy, and Peter can see puffs of steam in the air as he watches the barn window, waiting for Peter to come to him.

Peter’s never been courted by an alpha, but he think this is what it might be like.  It makes the hair in the back of his neck spike.

*

The deer keep getting at the garden.  Peter likes deer as much he likes his other animals—he finds them graceful and gentle, the perfect forest creatures, and they’re so _quiet_.  But the garden is his only food source, his _rabbits’_ only food source, especially since he doesn’t get into town very often. 

He’s standing over the ravaged cabbage and carrots, rubbing his arms for warmth, when the bear-wolf appears in the daylight for the first time.

“Someone’s been in your garden,” he says, walking slow and steady up the small hill from the woods.  “Someone’s been stealing your food.”

Peter takes a step back towards the screen door, bumping his elbow.  He looks down at the grass again.  This is a powerful alpha—we walks like he’s important, like this land and this garden and this dirt and _Peter_ are important.  It makes Peter nervous.  “The deer are so quiet.”

The alpha laughs softly.  He shoves his hands in his pockets.  “Are you alright?”

Peter nods, still looking at the ground.

“Can you look at me?”

Peter shrugs.  “I don’t like to.”

The alpha is quiet for a moment.  He’s powerful but not big like so many of the alphas Peter grew up with in town—he’s small, actually, about Peter’s size, with dark hair and bland clothes.  His boots are scuffed at the toes.  “Have I frightened you?”

Peter shakes his head.  His blind chocolate lab Bessie lopes up to his side, nosing his palm, nudging in front of him like she’s wary of their visitor.  “You watch me from the woods.  You watch me, like Lila.”

The alpha laughs again, but he doesn’t laugh like some people do when Peter speaks—his laugh is nice, almost conspiratorial, like they’re in on a joke together.  “I haven’t been as subtle as I hoped.”

“Stalking your prey,” Peter says abruptly, and gently slides his fingers beneath Bessie’s collar, leading her inside.  “Goodbye.”

“My name is Randall,” the alpha offers as Peter closes the door and locks it.

That night, Peter eats stale crackers and drinks coffee for supper.  He doesn’t look out his window, but he hears Lila in the trees.

*

The next morning is chilly, but not cool enough to frost yet.  Bessie is whining at the door and so are Louise and Samuel, his once-feral cats, their paws scratching beneath the door frame.  He can smell the animal before he sees it—the copper of blood, the heat of torn fur.

The deer is slain neatly, its neck gored, eyes long glassy with death.  Peter flinches but does not feel the pang in his chest he usually feels when he sees a dead animal, only because this one so obviously died in peace—not a scratch on her besides the neck wound, her belly full, her beautiful face calm in the sunlight.  She is left for him like an offering, like she lived and died happily for him.

“We’re both prey,” he whispers, and leans down to gently pick her up and take her inside.  He has an icebox, mostly empty, and he lays her down in its clean white maw like it’s a coffin.

Then he calls Will Graham.

*

Will sits on one of Peter’s battered kitchen chairs, Louise sleeping happily in his lap.  He scratches beneath her ears, fingers strong and sure, and shows no sign of letting up.  Bessie sleeps at his feet.  Even the birds are calm in their cages, fluttering and chirping merrily.

“I have to eat her,” Peter says calmly, measuring out birdseed into individual cups.  “She died for me.”

“No, she was _killed_ for you,” Will says, eyes on Louise.  “She didn’t have a choice.”

“Alpha feeds omega,” Peter muses.  “Alpha kills for omega.  Same.”

“You don’t eat meat.”

Peter glances over at the freezer.  “I want to eat my gift.”

“I can’t help you with that,” Will says.  “But my alpha might be able to.”

*

Will’s alpha is the sort of alpha Peter stays away from.  He’s tall and strong and stern and Peter doesn’t know a thing about him, can’t _read_ him, can hardly scent him on the wind.  He’s more of a thing than a person to Peter.

He comes with a full set of knives.

“This animal died a noble death,” Hannibal says, running his hand over the white fur on the deer’s belly.  She’s laid out on the table over an old bed-sheet and Hannibal stands over her with a knife, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows.  “You have an admirer, Mr. Bernardone.”

“I have…a predator,” Peter says, but Hannibal doesn’t answer as he slides his knife beneath the deer’s skin.  Peter wonders if Hannibal knows the difference.

Peter eats alone that night.  He tries to send meat home with Hannibal and Will, but they both refuse it, sparing a glance at one another.

The meat tastes like life, like _home_ , even though it settles like a stone in his belly.  After he washes up the dishes and feeds the remains to the dogs, he feels the telltale pull in the lower region of his body that means his heat is coming.

*

His heats are slow and hot, aching like a bruise.  He’s never had nice heats.  He stays in the loft of the barn on an old roll of blankets, the smell of damp hay and grass sticking to his skin and between his legs, and tries not to scream.

It’s nightfall before he knows it, night after a miserable cloudy day, after the unsatisfying rough press of his own fingers, after the useless gushes of slick that make him feel disgusting.  He’s thirsty but the water tastes stale.  Bessie howls forlornly from below, wondering what has befallen her master. 

 _Hoot-hoot,_ Lila calls from the woods.  _Hoot-hoot_.

Peter knows without looking that Randall is in there, watching the barn, listening to the noises Peter makes in the night.  He’s listening to the groans and whimpers, the wet sounds of Peter’s hand working over his own cock, he can probably smell his sweat and come and slick on the soft wind.

He waits and bides his time.

*

After his heat fades out over a parched, disgruntled afternoon, Peter ventures outside to go to the creek to bathe.  He fears his pipes may freeze in the upcoming frost—he’s already prepared the garden for the winter.  And he can’t stand the false metallic smell of the well water.  As he walks through the low, dying brush, he can feel eyes on his naked form.

“Too easy,” he says out loud, clutching his towel tight to his chest.  “Out in the open.  Not a fair chase.”  Sticks crackle to his left but he doesn’t look, just keeps walking.  Bessie stayed home but Bully, the old Doberman who spends all his time outside, keeps him company on the walk. 

“I won’t give chase,” Randall says, voice low.  Peter can’t even tell where it’s coming from.  “A chase after a heat is cruel.  I have no interest in being cruel to you.”

Peter doesn’t say anything until he’s at the creek.  He sits down on the bank, the mud cool and soft, and slides into the water.  It feels like heaven, wiping away the sweat and come from his heat, starting fresh and new. 

Randall growls softly.  He stands above Peter, behind him, but doesn’t make a move to touch him.  “I liked your heat scent,” he says plainly.  “Why do you wash it away?”

“Like you said,” Peter says, “my heat is over.  Time to move on.”  The water moves behind him, a smooth, cold ripple, and suddenly there are hands on his waist, his hips, hands with fingers like blunt claws.  “You can’t bring it back.”

“Next time,” Randall says, voice a welcoming warmth at the nape of Peter’s neck, “I want to be with you.  I want it to be mine.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say.  He knows he doesn’t want to push Randall away, or yell at him, or tell him to fuck off.  But he’s not ready to say yes.  “I’m not caught so easily,” he says, smiling a little.  “I’m not yours yet.”

Randall presses his nose against the space between Peter’s shoulder blades, inhales deeply, then leans up until he’s scenting his hair.  “I can be patient.”

“Like,” Peter says, and pauses for a moment as he thinks of the comparison, “a snake in the grass.”

“Something like that,” Randall says, and in a splash of cold water, disappears into the trees once more.

*

Peter doesn’t see Randall for ten days.  Randall’s _there_ , in the trees at night, but he doesn’t come to the house.  Peter doesn’t mind.

On the eleventh day, he comes with a small cardboard box held carefully in his arms.  “Do you know how to take care of rabbits?”

Peter takes the box and goes inside, heart already pounding, afraid of the pain he might see.  He doesn’t invite Randall in, so he stays outside until Peter nods to him that it’s alright.  Peter lifts the box lid to find a young brown rabbit, not fully grown but larger than a baby, huddled in a ball in the corner.  “Oh, oh,” Peter sighs, tilting his head to inspect the damage.  “Let’s have a look.”

He tucks his hands beneath the rabbit and lifts it gently, pressing his pinkie into its stomach, back, and front legs to test for a pain.  When he hits the back left leg, the rabbit startles and makes a light squeal, bringing the sting of tears to Peter’s eyes.  “Not so bad,” he says, trying to keep his voice optimistic.  “Just a little bump, right?”

“It wasn’t walking,” Randall says where he stands next to the stove.  “They’re usually all over the yard.”

“Just a joint injury,” Peter says.  “I can fix her right up.  She’s sweet, see?” He cups the rabbit in his hands, avoiding pressure on her back legs.  “She’s in pain, but she’s still blinking.  She’s a survivor.” He strokes the top of her head with his thumbs.  “Hold her while I set her leg.”

When Peter sets her tiny limb into an even tinier cast, he knows he’s making the same pained noises as she is—he can’t help it.  But Randall’s hands next to his steady, small but rough and strong from work. 

When he’s finished and sets the rabbit back in her box, nestled with plenty of warm blankets, he turns to see Randall staring at him intently, eyes hooded.  His pupils are blown, ink-black.

Peter knows what it is to be prey, but this feels like something else.

*

His next heat comes to him during the first week of winter.  He feeds the animals, gives them fresh water, and brings half a dozen blankets up to the loft.  He strips down, keeping his wool socks on, and sits in front of the loft window, staring out into the woods.

“Strike,” he whispers, and smiles to himself.  “Strike _now_.”  He closes his eyes, ignores the rush of blood to his cock.

There’s a pounding against the front door, a clatter of someone trying to break the lock.  A low grunt.  “Peter,” Randall says, low like a dog’s whine.  “ _Peter_ , let me inside.” Nails scrape against wood.

Peter inhales, exhales.

The scraping gets louder and closer, comes quicker, more pounding, and Peter is on his back in the blankets, Randall on top of him, caging him in with sweat-slick arms and legs.  Randall crawled up the side of the barn for him, scaled it like a beast, hands slick with blood from broken fingernails, sawdust in his hair.

“Strike,” Peter whispers, and Randall looks him dead in the eye before leaning down and clamping his mouth on the junction between neck and shoulder.

He bites, and Peter screams, shaky hands and nails scoring down Randall’s back, loud enough for the birds to fly from the trees.

*

Randall knots him as the sun goes down and the air cools and freezes, the heat of their bodies keeping their blood raw.  Peter feels flayed open, bare, clear for the first time since the accident.

When Randall comes inside him, hot and so _much_ , he reaches up and presses three fingers between Peter’s lips, prying open his jaw, hooking around his gums.  His fingers rub and graze Peter’s molar and canines, slick with spit.  He looks like he wants to crawl inside and savor the warmth, the open wound of his body.

“Look your gift horse,” Peter murmurs around the intrusion, body taut and pleased, “in the mouth.”

Randall grins, much more beast than man, and presses Peter down into the blankets.

**Author's Note:**

> We don't get much of Peter in the show, but we can assume that he has psychological damage from a head injury. I do still think he's able to give consent, so that's what I kept in mind with this fic.


End file.
